Chapter Twenty Seven. Silken Sackcloth.

The certificate of death is all we require.

“I have it here.”

“Why, how did you obtain it?”

“By a most fortunate circumstance. We saw one day, in the Indépendance Belge, that an unknown Englishman, apparently a gentleman, had died at the Hôtel du Nord at Antwerp. Pierre at once suggested that he might identify him as Hugh Trethowen. He went to Antwerp and did so. The man was buried as my husband, and here is the certificate.”

“A very smart stroke of business—very smart. But—er—don’t talk quite so plainly; you—”

“What do you mean? Surely you have no qualm of conscience? The payment we agreed upon ought to counteract all that.”

“Of course. Nevertheless, it is unnecessary to refer to the strategy too frequently. As long as we have an indisputable death certificate in the name of Hugh Trethowen, and you have your marriage certificate as his wife, there will not be the slightest difficulty.”

“I know that. To me you appear afraid lest we should be exposed.”

“You need not upbraid me for exercising due caution. The success of the plan you have been so long maturing depends upon it. Supposing we were unable to prove the will, in what position should we be?”

“In an awkward one—decidedly awkward. But why speak of failure when we are bound to succeed?”

“Are you quite sure the—er—dead man will never trouble us?”

“Positive. A sentence of fifteen years in New Caledonia means certain death. He might just as well have been buried at once, poor devil!”

This confidential conversation took place in Mr Bernard Graham’s gloomy private office in Devereux Court. The old solicitor, with a serious, intense expression upon his countenance, was sitting at his littered writing-table with a short legal document, covering only half of the sheet of foolscap, spread out upon his blotting-pad. Its purport was that the testator, Hugh Trethowen, left all he possessed to his “dear wife, Valérie,” and the date of the signatures showed that it had been completed only a few days before they left Coombe for Paris.

In the client’s chair, opposite her legal adviser, sat Valérie. Attired in deep mourning, that became her well, her thin black veil scarcely hid the anxious expression upon her face. Assuming her part with an actress’s regard to detail, she did not overlook the fact that pallor was becoming to a widow; therefore, since she had put on the garments of sorrow, she had refrained from adding those little touches of carmine to her cheeks which she knew always enhanced her beauty. Neither her face nor voice betrayed signs of nervousness. With the steady, dogged perseverance of the inveterate gambler she had been playing for heavy stakes, and now, at the last throw of the dice, she had determined to win.

Their interview had been by appointment in order to arrange the final details. Now that Graham was in possession of the death certificate, he was to proceed at once to obtain probate on the will, after which the estate would pass to her. For his services in this matter, and in various other little affairs to which she was indebted to him, he was to receive twelve thousand pounds. A munificent fee, indeed, for proving a will!

There was a silence while the old solicitor took up the certificate she had handed him, and carefully scrutinised it. The declaration was quite plain and straightforward. It stated that Hugh Trethowen, English subject, had died from syncope at the Hôtel du Nord, and had been buried at the cemetery of Stuivenberg.

“If he lived to complete his sentence?” hazarded Mr Graham in a low voice, putting down the slip of paper, and removing his pince-nez to polish them. “Imprisoned persons, you know, have an awkward knack of turning up at an inopportune moment.”

“And supposing he did, what could he prove?” she asked. “Has he not left a will bequeathing everything to me?—am I not mourning for him as his widow? Besides, he knows nothing—he can never know.”

“I admit your cleverness,” he said. “Notwithstanding that, however, we cannot be too circumspect.”

“We’ve absolutely nothing to fear, I tell you,” she exclaimed impatiently. “Hugh is as safely out of the way as if he were in his grave.”

“And what of the others—Egerton, for instance?”

“He dare not breathe a word. As a matter of fact, he is ignorant of the whereabouts of his friend.”

“Is Holt to be relied upon?”

“Absolutely. He has left the country.”

“Oh! Where is he?”

“In America Through some unexplained cause he took a passage to New York. I expect he is in disgrace.”

“Does he share?”

“Of course. He has written me a long letter announcing his intention not to return to England at present, and giving an address in Chicago where I am to send the money.”

“Very good,” Graham said approvingly. “As long as we can safely rely upon the secret being preserved, we need apprehend nothing.”

“It will be preserved, never fear,” declared Valérie flippantly. “They know how essential is secrecy for the safety of their own necks.”

“Don’t be so unsentimental,” urged the old man smiling. “You talk a little too plainly.”

“Merely the truth,” declared she laughing. “But never mind—you prove the will, and the twelve thousand pounds are yours.”

“Agreed. I shall take preliminary steps to-morrow.”

“The sooner the better, you know.”

“Shan’t you live at Coombe?”

“Oh, what an idea!” she exclaimed in ridicule. “How could I live there among all those country busy-bodies and old fogies? I should cut a nice figure as a widow, shouldn’t I? No. When I get the money I shall set up a good house here in London, mourn for a little time, then cast off my sackcloth and ashes.”

“Remember,” he said, “I am to receive twelve thousand pounds. But, really, you make a most charming widow.”

“And you bestow a little flattery upon me as a sort of recognition,” she observed, a trifle piqued at the point of his remark. Then, laughing again, she said lightly, “Well, if I really am so charming as some people tell me, I suppose I ought to be able to keep my head above water in the social vortex. At all events I mean to try.”

“You cannot fail. Your beauty is always fatal to those who oppose you,” he remarked pleasantly.

“We shall see!” she exclaimed, with a merry little peal of laughter. Rising and stretching forth her hand, she added, “I must be going. I consign the certificate to your care, and if you want me you know my address. I shall remain in London till the matter is settled.”

The old man rose, and grasped the hand offered to him. Bidding her adieu, he again assured her that he would give his prompt attention to the business on hand, and, as his clerk entered at that moment, he ceremoniously bowed her out.

During the time Valérie had been in conversation with Mr Graham, a woman had been standing on the opposite side of the Strand, against the railings of the Law Courts, intently watching the persons emerging from Devereux Court. She was young and not bad-looking, but her wan face betrayed the pinch of poverty, and her dress, although rather shabby, was nevertheless fashionable. Her dark features were refined, and her bright eyes had an earnest, intense look in them as she stood in watchful expectancy.

After she had kept the narrow passage under observation for nearly an hour, the object of her diligent investigation suddenly came into view. It was Valérie, who, when she gained the thoroughfare, hesitated for a moment whether she should walk or take a cab to the Prince of Wales’ Club. Deciding upon the former course, as she wanted to call at a shop on the way, she turned and walked along the Strand in the direction of Charing Cross.

When the woman who had been waiting caught sight of her she gave vent to an imprecation, the fingers of her gloveless hands twitched nervously, and her sharp nails buried themselves in the flesh of her palms.

As she started to walk in the same direction she muttered aloud to herself, in mixed French and English—

“Then I was not mistaken. To think I have waited for so long, and I find you here! You little dream that I am here! Ah, you fancy you have been clever; that your secret is safe; that the police here in London will not know Valérie Dedieu! You have yet to discover your mistake. Ha, ha! what a tableau that will be when you and I are quits! Bien, for the present I will wait and ascertain what is going on.”

Throughout the whole length of the Strand the strange woman walked on the opposite pavement, always keeping Valérie in sight—a difficult task sometimes, owing to the crowded state of the thoroughfare. At a jeweller’s near Charing Cross, Mrs Trethowen stopped for a few minutes, then, resuming her walk, crossed Trafalgar Square, and went up the Haymarket to the Prince of Wales’ Club, calmly unconscious of the woman who was following and taking such intense interest in her movements.

Muttering to herself sentences in French, interspersed by many epithets and imprecations, she waited for Valérie’s reappearance, and then continued to follow her down the Haymarket and through St. James’s Park to her flat in Victoria Street.

She saw her enter the building, and, after allowing her a few moments to ascend the stairs, returned and ascertained the number of the suite.

Then she turned away and walked in the direction of Westminster Bridge, smiling and evidently on very good terms with herself. Indeed, she had made a discovery which meant almost more to her than she could realise.